


DamijonWeek2019 Day Three: Soul Mates

by HappyDamijon



Series: DamijonWeek2019 [3]
Category: Super Sons (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Damijonweek, Damijonweek2019, Day Three: Soulmates, M/M, Soulmates, some at least
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-05
Updated: 2019-02-05
Packaged: 2019-10-19 03:00:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,956
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17593349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HappyDamijon/pseuds/HappyDamijon
Summary: DamijonWeek2019 Day Three: Soul MatesHe wondered what his would look like, not too long ago. What color it would adorn, if it was going to have a light color, like Dicks or Alfreds, or dark like his fathers. He wondered if he would only have one or two. He wondered if it would look sharp, dangerous, or smooth and delicate. If it would jump around like a child, full of delight, or wrap around him like a lover at night. He wondered if it would fade, just as bad as his parents. He wondered what type of woman she would be, if they would be romantic at all. He wondered how fierce she would be; if she would be just like him. He wondered if they would have children.Damian likes Jon. But that doesn't mean he wants to be his soulmateOr:Um. Soulmates. And some angst?





	DamijonWeek2019 Day Three: Soul Mates

**Author's Note:**

> alrightyyyy barely making it here!!! Just finished this thing like a minute ago (tho I've had it started for like...a month...sadly). Hopefully you all enjoy :)

He use to trace his mothers soulmark with his finger. It was small, red; wrapped around her wrist like a bracelet. Sometimes, when she'd pick him up in the middle of the night and take him to her bed, she would sing to him, lulling him back to sleep. She'd watch him absentmindedly feel her wrist, his mothers heartbeat steady underneath his finger tip. 

"Sabre," his mother would sing. An ancient lullaby. One he barely remembers now. "Sabre, my beloved. Hm, soon."

Then the mark began to fade. Not as radiant as it used to be. The red was barely visible. She stopped singing to him. 

Damian didn't know people could have more than one soulmark when he went to live with his father. The assassins never spoke of their soulmates, well covered from head to toe. His mother and grandfather only bared one. Pennyworth had a soulmark on his palms. Pink. Faded. 

"Why do the marks fade? Does it come with age?" Damian bravely asked one day. Alfred had just set down a plate of dinner. Time seemed to freeze, even his father in front of him looked disturbed. 

Alfred cleared his throat. His marks were pink, painted smoothly; no harsh edges, almost like a flower planted in both palms, identical. Still one person, one soulmate, taking more room than it should. 

"There is one reason, Master Damian, and that is incompatibility." 

That was all the answer he was given. 

Then he saw his fathers marks not too long after. He was bloody and naked, save for his underwear, angry at Damian, himself, who knows. He wouldn't let Alfred touch him, instead working a stitch onto his own side. Damian watched, in awe. A dark blue mark covered the upper part of his back, pulsing; beautiful. Then there was _another_. Black, along the front of his thigh, intricate, delicate, with sharp lines along the outer corners. The third was one Damian can trace onto his own wrist, imbedded in his mind: blood red, along Bruce's left wrist, always covered until now, but faded, dead. _Dull_ , he would think, as he later learns the term for the faded marks. 

Over the years he has seen his fair share of marks: Dick, with three as well. The first on his arm, the soul mark long, starting at his wrist and wrapping itself around his forearm, stopping right at his elbow. The second is light blue, circling around his shoulder. The third turned out to be a white one that lapped at his side, bright and intricate, serious but somehow looking joyous, fun. 

No one knows the significance of the colors or the sizes. Some say it depends how strong the bond is, though there are married soulmates with simple swirls either behind an ear, inside a finger, or underneath a toe, with bonds just as strong as those with an entire marked leg. Some used to say that certain colors meant doom, like black, but that proved to be untrue. Others repeat that it reflects the mix of the souls; who they are, blending perfectly, a physical manifestation of their heavenly selves, whether simple and sweet, or bold and unafraid, shameless.

No one knows for sure. 

He wondered what his would look like, not too long ago. What color it would adorn, if it was going to have a light color, like Dicks or Alfreds, or dark like his fathers. He wondered if he would only have one or two. He wondered if it would look sharp, dangerous, or smooth and delicate. If it would jump around like a child, full of delight, or wrap around him like a lover at night. He wondered if it would fade, just as bad as his parents. He wondered what type of woman she would be, if they would be romantic at all. He wondered how fierce she would be; if she would be just like him. He wondered if they would have children. 

Damian likes Jon. But that doesn't mean he wants to be his soulmate. 

He remembers his mothers words, the first time she tried to explain what they meant. What they were. 

"They're like snowflakes. Fingerprints. Unique to one another. A pattern of swirls, dots, images. Sometimes they appear on a thigh, a bicep, behind the ear. Sometimes the mark dances along your fingers, your palm, forever marking you. It feels like a trickle of water, tickling the nerves, the veins, painting itself onto you. In ancient times, people would paint themselves; young being painted by the old, a testament, a whisper of good luck. Soon, they said. Soon, Damian."

Too soon, in Damian's eyes. 

It's true, what she said, about the trickle of water. Smooth, pleasing. Just a pinch of a tingle, running all the way from the tip of his middle finger, spreading slowly along the back of his palm, swirling around his arm, and then swallowing his bicep whole, finally full by the tip of his shoulder, the slightest bit spreading toward his collarbone, reaching, before freezing, curling almost pathetically. A blue green. 

All it took was a good laugh and a high five. His mother said hers appeared shortly before he was conceived. 

The video game continues in the background. _Team One Wins!_

The thoughts in Damian's head run wild. His childhood. His mother. His father. His own hopes and dreams. 

Jon smiles after a moment, chuckling.

"Hey," he says lightheartedly, punching Damian's shoulder lightly. "I guess you _do_ like me."

He's so young. Only thirteen. He doesn't understand. 

Damian stands. He knows what he's about to do. He knows the consequences. His mark pulses. Jon looks down, confused at his own arm. Damian holds his head high. Confident. 

"I should go."

Jon swallows.

"But..." His voice is so small. _Just a damn child._

 "We'll speak of this a different day," Damian says. He grabs his things. 

He leaves. 

 

The days go on as they do normally. He busies himself with sharpening knives and annoying his siblings and being Robin and taking care of his pets and...and ignoring his mark, pulsing on occasion, reminding him of someone. 

He can feel it, pulling at his heart. Reminding him time and time again when Jon isn't near. No one ever told him it's like having a pet attached to his body. It doesn't talk. It doesn't move. It doesn't cause any pain. It only lightly pulses, here and there; mostly a feeling the mark seems to release, reminding the host that it's still there, still beating. Not Dull. 

The faces his family members make when they notice don’t help either. For awhile, they’d look at him expectantly got an explanation. Then they eventually got the message and gave up, looking uninterested in Damian’s mark. A sleeve, is what they call it. Of course it just had to be huge. Damian can’t cover it appropriately when he wears regular clothes, unless he’d like to look like a complete fool. Hot days would not go so well.

So sometimes he wears thin long sleeved shirts. Sometimes he keeps only his right arm exposed, an arm band covering most of his mark on other days. He never wears gloves unless he’s Robin, so his finger and hand are left exposed for everyone to see. After awhile, he can ignore it, the pattern and color and swirl of it just a part of him, as if he was born with it. 

Jon tries to talk to him at first. For weeks, he’d attempt to get Damian alone. Then he’d try to have the conversation in public. After two months or so, he gave up. 

The weeks go by. Damian’s mark pulses. He ignores Jon. He doesn’t talk to Jon. 

He doesn’t see Jon. 

At first, Damian tried to lie to himself. He’d think he doesn’t know why he doesn’t want to be around Jon. He’d rationalize with himself that it’s because Jon doesn’t feel like his soulmate. But soulmates don’t have to be anything more than friends. There are no rules, no love necessary, just complete compatibility in that given moment. And maybe Damian just thought that the universe had made a mistake because eventually, undoubtedly...his mark will go Dull. 

And maybe he’s afraid of that. 

Dostancing himself doesn’t make anything better. He isn’t strengthening the bond by doing so. But better he control it then it randomly happen. Dull marks _hurt_. Not physically, but emotionally. He’s seen what it’s done to his parents. He’s seen what heartbreak can do to a person. Falling out of love, not being compatible anymore—knowing that this perfect person for you isn’t perfect for you anymore, and it’s because you both have changed. What could have been is gone. Because what’s Dull is Dull. There’s no going back. There’s no erasing it. No rekindling. It stays on your body forever, a constant reminder that what was once beautiful is now dead. 

 

Its been a year since he’s talked or seen Jon. His mark is still there, alive, but it seems to slowly fade through the months. It might turn Dull any day now. 

But he needs to see Jon. He doesn’t understand why. There’s a part of him yearning, constantly; not to touch, not to listen, but to _see_. A glance of him would be enough. He just wants to see Jon. That’s all he wants. 

So he does. He watches from a cluster of trees outside of Jon’s school. He waits patiently, the bell having just rung moments before. Just a glance. He doesn’t need Jon to look at him. All he needs is a confirmation that Jon is still Jon, his brown haired, blue eyed joyful self. That’s all. And Damian can go back to hiding for another year, slowly watching his mark go Dull. 

He catches sight of him. He’s will two other friends, the three of them laughing. He’s grown taller. His hair looks lighter. He looks happy. 

Damian’s mark pulses aggressively. He shakes his arm, looking down at it in irritation. It distrusted his train of thought. He quickly looks up again, in hopes that Jon is still in sight. 

He is. And he’s looking straight at Damian. 

His heart catches in his throat. He should leave. He shouldn’t be here. He stays put, watching as Jon bid his friends goodbye. He’s headed Damian’s way. Damian wants to leave, he does, but he’s too stubborn. He drinks in the sight of Jon, right here, right now, walking toward him. Jon keeps an even pace, too slow for Damian, but the moment he gets closer, it’s too much. He should have hidden better. He could have, he knows that. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew Jon would see him, not so hidden in the cluster of trees, not with his supersight. 

Jon stops a few feet away from Damian. They don’t speak, though Damian’s sure they both have a lot to say. I miss you, should be one. I want my best friend back. 

“You know,” Jon says, his breath hitching. His eyes have gotten glassy. He looks angry. “You’re a real fucking asshole.” 

Damian doesn’t say anything. His jaw twitches. Damian almost flushes in embarrassment. Silence.

Jon leaves. 

 

 

He shouldn't have a soulmate. He should never have had a soulmate. He isn't compatible with anyone. He's stubborn and rude and doesn't understand people or what they go through and he's just so detached all the time and to think that he hasn't spoken to or seen or bothered to just be there for his soulmate. He's just terrible and it's hard to believe that--to see his mark still hasn't gone Dull; that it hasn't changed much in the past two years. Because Jon isn't letting go. That has to be it. There's no possible way they still work so well together, after being a part for so long. 

(Distance doesn't matter. It's never mattered.)

He craves for another sighting of Jon. He knows Jon won't go to him, he hasn't in years, and Damian understands. Their last encounter wasn't the best either. It's just been so long. Jon's fifteen now. Growing so damn much, going through everything without Damian. 

He watches him from a better position this time. He stays hidden on the roof, on a particularly gloomy day. It's easier to do this just as Jon gets out of school. That way Jon can be distracted, and Damian won't feel the urge to go to him in broad daylight. It's easier to resist temptation this way. No touching. No talking, hopefully. Just watching, because Damian's pathetic and terrible and doesn't deserve a damn soulmate. 

He sees Jon right away, despite how much he has grown. He has more friends; new friends. He's...holding hands. With a girl. He has a purple scarf on, wrapped tightly around his neck, keeping the cold away. Damian's mark pulses. He keeps his eyes on Jon, absentmindedly shaking his arm. He hates the pulsing. It distracts him. Reminds him of too much.

Jon turns his head, looking up right at Damian. He holds his breath. He knows he can't hide. Who knows how Jon just knows but they make a brief moment of eye contact, Jon looking straight into his binoculars. There's a tense moment. Damian holds his breath. Jon won't come over to the roof, will he?

But then he pulls the girl to him, giving her a kiss. Damian continues to watch. Jon pulls his scarf off, shoving it in his backpack. Damian's confused by the action at first, and even more so when Jon sheds his jacket off. All his friends are laughing at him. He gives his jacket to the girl. She's dressed well enough for the weather. What was the _point_?

Then Damian see's it. Small, _purple_ , shaped in a circle. Another mark. 

Jon wants him to see. He wants Damian to know. 

He thinks, just for a moment, throwing his binoculars down at the ground. Then he remembers that this is normal. 

Then he pinches his arm. He reminds himself that he and Jon don't have to be romantic. They aren't. He doesn't care who Jon wants to be with. Great for Jon, in fact. 

 

_What is wrong with him?_

 

July fourth. Before, the day hadn't meant much to Damian. Now, as he listens to his father, he wonders what the day will mean to him now. 

"A suicide bomb, it seems. Twenty three killed, twelve in critical condition, and forty seven injured. Jon—maybe you should talk to him. Superman—Clark says...you should go see him, Damian."

He doesn't want to. But his father has never said anything about Jon, or Damian's decision not to speak to him. He never talks about soulmates around Damian. If his father is asking...if Clark asked...

He nods. 

(And also maybe because it’s about time he stopped being a damn coward.) 

So he goes. He doesn't know how Jon will react. He doesn't know if he'd be angry or upset. He doesn't expect smiling faces and giggles. Jon is going through something, more likely than not, he's going through _grief_ , and if he so happens to like Damian there then...so be it. If he doesn't, then so be it. Damian just doesn't want to make it _worse_. 

He sneaks in through the window. The lights are off. It's late at night, only a few days after the bombing. There's a figure on the bed. Jon's lying there, still, staring at the ceiling. 

"Get out." 

It's quick. Harsh. Emotional. Damian remains put. 

Jon sits up. He throws a pillow at Damian. He didn't throw it hard, it was barely with a wave of his hand, but it landed squarely on his chest. Perfect aim. Damian keeps his mouth shut. He'll wait until Jon really wants him to leave. The problem is, he also doesn't want to make Jon too upset. But he can't relent too quickly. He needs to show Jon that he's here, truly here, and he's willing to be there for Jon. 

There's sniffling. Jon's crying now. Should he move closer? Farther? Keep still? Should he say something now? He doesn't know. What would he say? I'm sorry? That's probably the last thing Jon wants to hear right now. He can't say anything. He doesn't have the right to. 

"I said get out!" Jon cries. He throws another pillow. This time it misses Damian entirely. "Get out, Damian! I hate you! _Everything_ is your fault! You ruin everyone's lives! That's all you do! That's all you're good for!" 

Perhaps it _would_ be best if he leaves. Though something feels wrong about leaving without saying a word. Maybe now an "I'm sorry" doesn't seem too bad. Then, by the time Jon has calmed down, he'd understand that all Damian wanted to do was be there for him, albeit a bit too late, but there nonetheless. 

"She's gone," Jon sobs. There's a tear. He's ripped his blanket in half. "She's gone and it's all your fault!" He continues to wail. He's loud, unashamed. Damian wishes he were perfect. A part of him wants to look down at his mark, see if its gone Dull. He doesn't, though a part of him fears that it has in that moment. It's irrational, but now's not the time to worry about whether or not they're still soulmates. Jon just lost someone. That is more important than their bond. 

So, Damian finally says it. What he should have said a long time ago. When they first got their marks. 

"I'm...I am deeply sorry, Jon." For everything. He truly is. He wishes he can make the pain go away. He wishes they were never soulmates, because none of this would have happened. Who knows what would have changed. How much their friendship could have evolved.

But Damian got scared and left. And now no one is happy. 

Jon's crying dies down. He sighs loudly. "I'm sure you are," he says softly, his voice rough. He nods his head. A dark moving figure in the dark. He sighs again, his hands going up to his face. "I'm sure you are, Damian."

He sounds so defeated. Damian's mark pulses. Jon laughs in that moment. 

"Stupid thing," he mumbles. "Georgia's doesn't do that. Might be because she never abandoned me." He stops breathing suddenly. Damian waits patiently, his heart heavy in his chest. Jon moves, the covers moving with him, the sound loud in the silent room. "She was right there. We were all so happy. There were fireworks. And then...then an actual _boom_. I could've saved her and...I _didn't_."

It's not your fault, Damian almost says. But Jon knows that. Deep down, Jon probably knows that, so Damian lets him speak. He lets him take it all out. Damian can stand back and listen. It's the least he can do. 

"I could've saved everybody and I didn't. I was pushed away from her and everyone was—everyone was screaming and on fire and—and I was frozen. I'm invincible Damian and I just stood there while people died." 

"Four made it to the hospital because of you," Damian mumbles suddenly. He keeps his voice soft. Passive. He's not usually like this. He hates this. But Jon needs it. Jon needs _him_ , dammit. 

Jon only breathes. 

"Yeah," he eventually says. "But they weren't her." 

Damian fiddles with his fingers. It may be too early, who knows, but he says it anyway. 

"What was she like?" 

Jon spends the rest of the hour talking. He tells Damian stories. He doesn't seem mad at him anymore, or annoyed. He talks about how they found out, when they did, how they reacted. He talks about slowly starting to date her. He talks about her fierce personality. How beautiful she was. How smart. How kind. He talks about their first date. 

He goes on and on. Damian tries not to think of himself the whole time, but he can't help it. What would life have been like if he had stayed? If he had accepted Jon? If he wasn't afraid? What would have happened if he didn't know that...he would fall in love? 

Because isn't that the real problem? That Damian would fall in love with Jon? The sad thing is, he already has. But he's too late. Forget the damn mark, what Damian did was unacceptable. How could he leave Jon like that? Not only from their potential future, but as friends? A true friend would never abandon another. It isn't right. It doesn't make them a good person. Jon deserves a good person, like Georgia. 

But now she's gone. So far, Damian is all Jon has got left.

"Damian," Jon says. His voice wobbles. Damian clears his throat.

"Yeah?"

Jon sniffs. "...stay the night?"

Damian's heart stops. He swallows. His knees buckle just the slightest. He straightens up.

"I don't think you're—"

"I don't care what you think," Jon snaps. "Just...if you don't mind, stay. Here. With me. For tonight. Until I fall asleep." 

He should say no. He doesn't know exactly why, but he should. It doesn't seem like the right thing to do. But Jon's asking him, and the poor guy hasn't asked for much, so Damian relents. He peels his jacket off. He unties his shoes. He walks toward Jon. He pulls the ripped blanket back, letting Damian climb in. It's awkward. Damian's thankful it's dark, so they can't properly see each other's faces. 

"Dull marks don't feel like anything," Jon whispers into the dark. "But it still feels like there's something dead living inside of you." 

Damian doesn't say anything. He closes his eyes. His shoulder is touching Jon's. He hasn't been this close in...too long. Jon feels warm and soft, even separated by clothing. 

"I now know why you were so scared," Jon continues, his voice still a soft whisper. "It doesn't make total sense, but I get it. What you were afraid of. You've only briefly mentioned your parents, but the more I thought about it, I began to realize that that must've been hard to face as a child. Dull marks can be scary. Especially if death isn't what caused it." 

Damian swallows. His fists clench. Don't be so nice, Jon. _I don't deserve it. I don't deserve you. I don't deserve anybody_. 

"It's okay," Jon says. He reaches for Damian's hand. Damian releases a soft gasp. He thinks of ripping his hand away, of leaving the room. He thinks of abandoning Jon again. Never speaking to him. But he stays put. He grips Jon's hand hard, his flesh against Damian's. The first time since that high five, that caused this whole mess. "It's okay, Damian. I...I forgive you." 

Jon shifts. Then, there's lips pressed against his cheek. Damian's lips part. A tear falls. He doesn't deserve this. He doesn't. He came here for Jon, for his problems. He just lost a soulmate, but he's the one comforting Damian. 

That's the point though, isn't it? Jon just lost a soulmate. He's still got one left, so why the hell would he let go of Damian now? 

Damian breathes in deep. He fills his chest, his lungs, and when he releases he let's go of everything. He lets go of his insecurity; his selfishness. He lets go of his guilt. He nods his head. 

"Thank you." 

Everything isn't fixed. Jon's still rightfully upset. They won't immediately go back to friends, or perhaps boyfriends anytime soon. This is a start, however. A start to a new beginning. A re-do of what should have happened. 

His mark pulses, and for the first time ever, he feels Jon's pulse back. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I knooow not the best thing but honestly I just needed to finish. If I didn't now, I probably never would have gone back to it. 
> 
> Anyhow, until tomorrow!!


End file.
